Skin Game
by Nadare
Summary: Set shortly after issue 172 of the comic, John sets about putting his plan into action in regards to S.W. Manor. He's playing the long game and it all starts with seduction. M/M, John x Stan.


_Author's Note: I was fresh off a "Hellblazer" reread, and this story popped up in my head randomly. I think I just wanted to write some slash but I really did enjoy the Ashes and Dust: In the City of Angels story even if most of it was told from an outsider's POV. I wondered what John was thinking during this period. I've done my best to British it up but it'll probably show that I reside in the US._

{Continuity wise, I'd say this story takes place just after issue 172 of the comic. Warning, there is man smut, it's not flat out explicit but you should know what's happening in any case.}

[Written on and off between May 15th and June 6th of 2015]

" _ **Skin Game"**_

Even before the front door had finished closing, Stanley was all over him, his injured back and possible servants bearing witness to their tryst forgotten. He seemed a man on a mission, and showed no sign of stopping. With one hand holding the back of John's neck tightly, and Stan's tongue trying to feel his tonsils out, he was banking on the fact John wanted to be here. In truth, it had been a while since John had slept with a chap, and it took a few minutes of manhandling for his body to adjust accordingly. It remembered that yes, this was good, please keep at it. He had his limits though, and John snatched Stan's hand just as it was trying to sneak into his pants.

Stan immediately frowned, and his fervor cooled a touch. A part of John relished Stan's flash of displeasure, and he had to fight not to smirk. He hadn't counted on the man being so desperate to bed him. True, John had watched from afar before approaching Stan, and had planned every step of this con yet the look of delight after the shock at seeing John among the living had caught him off-guard. As far as John was concerned, Stan was barely a footnote in his life but clearly Stan thought different. All that effort to bring John down, and trap him in prison, that showed rather serious dedication. "Slow down, mate. Night's still young, innit?"

Stan hadn't bothered to turn on a light and had leaned back enough that John couldn't see his face in the ambient moonlight when he said, "I want you now." His voice had been firm and damned if John didn't hear a hint of vulnerability in it. S.W. Manor was a piece of a human scum, he bribed, he murdered, he did whatever he pleased because he had the ability to make anything go away. Throw enough money at a problem and eventually it resolved itself. Power corrupted and Stan was a prime example so why did John's conscience, slim as it was, twinge a tad?

He couldn't be losing his touch, he'd done worst things than set a man up to die. In far dire ways as well. Then again, one usually didn't sleep with prey before killing it. Maybe that was the problem. John usually tried not to get his hands dirty if he could help it, but this con wouldn't work without it. He had to be front and center, lighting the bomb at ground zero. All this thinking was tripping him up, John had to focus, be in the moment. Forget the matter of man he was cavorting with, and just act.

He yanked Stan's mouth to his and tongued, bit, sucked even as he reached around to Stan's back and purposely shoved fingers into one of the whip lashes he felt underneath the shirt, gratified when Stan moaned into his mouth, a shudder racking his body. Sadism wasn't usually John's bag but like any normal boy, one would try anything once, and giving Stan pain, well, John couldn't deny it felt good.

"Do that again," Stan whispered, his eyes shut as if to relish the lingering sensations he felt. "Glad to," John growled, raking both hands down Stan's back, causing blood to flow anew. His fingertips grew wet with the blood starting to trickle through the man's shirt. Stan had gone ramrod straight, groaning deep in his throat, barely an inch from John's face. Whatever Stan was feeling, he overcame it within a moment later, panting a little. "I didn't think it'd be like this," Stan confessed shakily, resting his head on John's shoulder.

"No?" John questioned, busying himself with undressing Stan who stood there contentedly, apparently dazed. "Think of me often, do you?" Taking Stan's shirt off was a struggle with blood having plastered it to his skin. Eventually, John triumphed, tossing it aside, knowing full well it was beyond saving. "You have no idea." Stan resumed his earlier attack, biting into John's neck not too gently as his hands went straight to the heart of the matter by gripping his member, shifting his pants down enough so that he could gain easy access.

John was reminded why he was open to men once again when Stan slid down to his knees and began sucking. As much as women thought they knew about how to please a man, only someone of the same gender really understood what felt good. Stan was doing a very credible job and thoroughly at that, moving fingers and tongue expertly. Practice made perfect no doubt. None too soon, when John thought he was nearing completion, Stan backed off to kiss his stomach, adding an edge of teeth that made John shiver. He was well turned on at this point, his choice of bed partner aside, and thought it time to pay back the attention Stan had paid him.

The man still had his pants on, and Stan chuckled when John pulled them off, coming down to the floor to do so. "Someone's impatient." Knowing Stan's preferences, of which they were many, John shoved him onto his back, letting his hands trace down Stan's waist, bypassing his crotch to take a firm grip of Stan's butt, squeezing harder when Stan writhed underneath him, his breaths heavy, unconsciously lifting his hips, brushing John's crotch.

He'd detached himself as well as he could and still play the game but that one touch had fired John's nerves up, and he was hardly aware of pushing Stan to one side, laying his entire backside almost bare. He kept himself in shape, and John took a moment to appreciate the hard planes of Stan's body before throwing the offending boxers away. The lashes he'd clawed with his nails were still bleeding, turning into crisscross patterns down Stan's back. "Do it." He had been watching John and if the piece of anatomy at attention was any indication, he'd liked what he'd seen while John had taken in the view.

Stan's request was firm, brooking no denial. John was literally being told to fuck Stan over. It was too good not to laugh at, and he indulged himself, ignoring the dark look on Stan's face. "What's so funny?" John smiled, his dry chuckles dying off, dipping his fingertips into a particularly nasty lash mark. Who needed lube when a replacement would do just as well? "Just the world, squire."

Any retort Stan had was silenced when John roughly shoved two fingers up Stan's arse, not giving him time to adjust. Normally, John would take his time if he was batting so to speak, but Stan enjoyed pain on a level that was hard to understand. A sadist and a masochist all rolled up in one. Double threat. "God," Stan gasped, his eyes clenched shut, almost as tight as his sphincter.

John wasn't going to lie, giving pleasure even to someone of Stan's caliber made his pride swell, and he felt a tad smug he'd reduced such a powerful man to this, twitching and panting on the floor. As if Stan was a puppet, every time John shifted his fingers, he writhed, completely at John's mercy. Pulling out after having stretched Stan out enough that he wouldn't cause any damage while entering, John clutched Stan's hips, using one hand to pull down his pants enough that he was unrestricted.

He gave absolutely no warning as he plunged himself home, fighting Stan's natural tightness as John pushed deeper. Stan was burning hot inside, and John closed his eyes in gratification as he worked himself in inch by inch. In this, Stan was just another body to dominate, and John had enough experience under his belt that he could make this memorable, and that was the whole point, wasn't it?

Stan was trembling beneath him, and gasped when John hit the end of him, his hands gripping the rug below him roughly. Sweat broke out on John's brow as he forced himself to go slow in pulling out, his back hunched, that warm haze of pleasure starting in earnest. He'd forgotten how good this felt, having gotten used to the convenience of women. They were biologically designed to ease the way but men didn't have that advantage, and that made it better in a way. In his bid to gradually drive Stan mad, John's pace was measured, ignoring his natural urge to let loose, and damn the consequences.

John lost track of time, he was so engrossed and had almost forgotten who was he inside when Stan yelled, his muscles tense as he climaxed. John bit his lip, drawing blood as Stan's inner walls convulsed around him, drawing a deep groan from him. Even as Stan went slack under him, John was still hard, and had started to move again when Stan pulled away, his purpose in doing so only clear when he turned over onto his back. Satisfaction was clear in his eyes, and Stan sat up enough so he could kiss John, latching his arms around John's neck.

Not needing any further hints, John wrestled his mouth away from Stan's, and pinned him to the floor, a tad unnerved that he was being watched as he shoved himself back into Stan, the arms loose around his shoulders suddenly taut, Stan's moan tripping something inside John. Slow and steady was abandoned in favor of fast and loose. With Stan's breath hot on his ear, and his fingernails clawing his back, John struggled to last, feeling Stan catch a second wind, meeting his thrusts until they were synchronized. The finish was so close, tantalizingly so then between one breath and the next, it exploded, John riding the high, his hips twitching minutely until the orgasm faded, leaving sweat, semen, and blood behind.

John didn't know if Stan had come a second time or not, and he didn't care. Man could finish himself off if he needed. With the deed done, it was awkward being so close, and John wasted no time in getting some space between them, noting that yes, Stan had finished again, something he'd have to clean up rather soon before it turned disgusting. "Are you always so…energetic?" Zipping his pants, John smirked, glancing at Stan lying on the floor, too spent to stand yet.

"Could be with the right motivation. Where did you put me bloody coat?" He was gasping for a fag. Stan managed to make it to his elbows, flinging one arm behind him. His coat was crumpled in a heap, and upon inspecting it, John scowled at a blood stain, most likely from Stan's back. He grabbed a cig, and lit it, that first drag so satisfying. Putting the lighter away, watching Stan pull himself together slowly, John didn't kid himself. Bastard that he was, Stan was one hell of a lay. He hadn't complained about the rough treatment, and John had probably gone up in Stan's estimation for it.

When Stan finally stood, he was unsteady, having to put one hand on the wall for balance. The motion itself spoke volumes how well John had performed. Stan soon righted himself and walked down the hallway, his naked state seeming normal. Maybe it was for all John knew. He shook his head and followed Stan into an obscenely spacious kitchen, barely managing to catch the towel Stan threw in his direction. Cleaning up the mess was easy, John had made a profession out of it after all.

He didn't bother with the coat, it had seen worse than blood stains. If he concentrated hard enough, John could still smell the awful stink of hell on it…or was that him? The clatter of a glass hitting the tabletop brought him back to the present, and he tossed the towel aside, and slipped on his coat, instantly at ease.

"I can buy you a new one, you know," Stan said casually, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. _Sod that, pissant,_ John thought to himself, outwardly shrugging his shoulders. He strolled over to Stan, dragging a fingertip across the countertop as he went, leaving wisps of smoke in his wake. "Need more than the coat, Stan," John said, his face betraying nothing. He lifted his hand from the counter, taking a long drag from his fag. The index finger on his other hand twitched to life, rotating in a circle. The smoke John exhaled formed into an arrow, striking Stan in the chest. Near about that organ that continued keeping a monster like Stan breathing.

John leaned in close to Stan who was watching him with interest and a dose of curiosity. The familiar thrill of excitement and exhilaration came unbidden as John used his near dead cig, pressing the lit end on Stan's collarbone. The man sucked in a breath, something dark rising in Stan's gaze while flesh burned, the fag falling to the floor. "I need you," John finished, smiling, standing a mere inch from Stan. Did the darkness lift in his eyes for a moment or was he seeing things?

John needed him all right, right on his fucking knees as he wallowed in utter misery, his cold heart and spirit shattered. Get a waste of what his victims felt as their life crumpled around them. Stan raised his hand, caressing John's cheek then kissed him lightly, smiling as he pulled away. Happiness seemed out of place on Stan, and bordered on disturbing. Still, in his darkest of hearts where the manipulative conman and magical addiction resided, he felt an immense sense of satisfaction. His returning smile was nothing light, and if Stan hadn't busied himself with pulling his glass away, and turned around that moment and seen it, John would have given away the game then and there.

He schooled his features as Stan grabbed his hand, and led him towards a staircase, presumably to indulge carnal pleasures again. "I am good for more than just this, you know," John informed wryly, stopping outside of a bedroom that seemed needlessly large. Stan remained silent as he strode towards the bed, glancing over his shoulder when John lingered where he was. Stan sighed, half turning as he crossed his arms. "I'm well aware, John. You think I didn't keep eyes on you throughout the years? No, I know exactly what you're capable of, what depths you'll sink to get what you want. We're not so different in that. At the moment, I don't give a shit about that."

Stan sat down on the bed, looking at John intensely. He'd lit a fire in that gaze, and all it had taken was a few sexual acts. "Let's enjoy each other then we'll see if you can give me more than pleasure." Stan's words had raised a number of red flags. Had he twigged onto the fact John was out to ruin him? Was this relationship going to quickly turn into a game of favors? How long had Stan's minions kept watch as he bit and clawed his way out of shit storms? Surely, the surveillance had stopped once he'd falsified his death in the prison riot.

John walked over to Stan, standing over him, trying to get some measure of where they stood. He was dark in terms of appearance and in his actions. Once John had secured Stan's identity as his jailer, he'd researched the man's background, and none of it was good. His public persona was pure gold but underneath it all was a purely selfish individual. The things this man had done just for laughs was disturbing, never mind what he'd done to advance his enterprise. Looking into dark eyes and the fair face framing them, John was reminded of a snake. He'd bedded Stan less than ten minutes ago and enjoyed it. Hell, he'd loved it. "You're overdressed, John," Stan said coolly, reaching out to grip John's pants.

As he stepped out of them, John heaved a mental sigh, playing house in this con had proven difficult. Physically, they were well-matched but their personalities couldn't have been more different. Stan left John's trench coat where it lay, the familiar weight and scent like a second skin to John. "I'm not used to you being so quiet, not when you can crack wise." Admittedly, Stan was right, and that shouldn't be. John was the one running this game, a rogue knight shrugging off the conventional rules to topple the king who'd grown fat and lazy inside his castle.

John pushed Stan down on the bed, and propped himself up above Stan, meeting his gaze. "I'm quiet because I'm thinking, Stan. Imagining all the ways I can make you scream. I want to debase you, and rip away that smug rich boy persona of yours until you're just an extension of myself. I want you so far gone that when I rub your face in the dirt, you'll thank me for it, and beg for more. Any problems with that?"

Stan had gone still, his expression blank until he grabbed John and pressed himself close, making it almost hard to breathe. John thought Stan was laughing, the man's body quivering, until he felt something wet against his shoulder. The fucker was crying. Out of gratefulness, relief, anger? John didn't know but the whispered "please" in his ear only meant one thing: he'd won.

John pulled back from Stan's crushing embrace and stared at a tear about to fall, leaning down and licking it just as it began to slip down Stan's cheek. The salt was sharp on his tongue yet tasted oh so sweet. This was what victory felt like, and John intended to savor it. Stan was utterly relaxed in his hands and John kissed him, cradling Stan's face. His tears had stopped, his passionate enthusiasm making a swift comeback. Stan nibbled at his tongue, and John grinned widely, unable to help himself.

He'd drag this out as long as he could, occupying the lover role, giving Stan what he wanted physically and magically. All that time though, he'd be stepping closer and closer to disaster, flirting with it, and fucking it unknowingly. When the end did arrive, it'd be game, set, match and winner John Constantine.

 _ **The End**_


End file.
